Harry Potter Is Mad Right?
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: Cornelius Fudge dealing with the year of the Order of the Phoenix.


**Houses Competition. Head of House, Ravenclaw, Short, Cornelius Fudge, WC: 1910**

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Cornelius Fudge woke from the dream with a sudden, jarring movement. His hands moved to cover his face, and his legs twitched into a protective position. Dream was, of course, a somewhat relative term. In this case, one might have called it more of a nightmare. It had been dark and terrifying, but Fudge was certain that it wasn't real.

He sat up in bed, shaking, sweating, hands clutching at the sheets in an effort to make things seem just a little bit more real. The room was pitch black, so it must still have been night-time - or perhaps early morning. His watched claimed it to be thirty-seven minutes past three. Ever so slightly, the nightmare was slipping away from him.

And yet, he knew he wouldn't forget the basics of the dream. They were the same as every nightmare had been for the last four months.

A pale, snake-like face, cold voice, and burning red eyes. Black robes that could suffocate the sun. Then there were the memories, mixed in with this new horror. Fifteen years ago, Fudge had been rising through the Ministry, and You-Know-Who was in his height of power. The war had been intense, and the feelings from it remained - fear, frustration, sadness.

 _Lightning flashes of scorching spells ricocheted around the air itself, searching for a new target. It burned; it scarred those in the line of fire - those fighting for the light side. Because the Death Eaters were stronger._

This was what Fudge was most afraid of now. Here he was, Minister of Magic - the dream job - so afraid that he was going to lose everything. Four months ago, the Triwizard Tournament ended with Cedric Diggory having come back from Merlin-knows-where, dead, in the arms of Harry Potter. Discussions had been endless over the summer - what should we do, how should we navigate this, he can't really be back, can he Minister? - but the conclusion had been to assume Potter a madman.

In the discomfort of his own home, Cornelius Fudge wasn't so sure about it all. It felt wrong to assume that Harry was mad, but it also felt wrong to side with a fourteen-year-old boy when the country's population was determined to believe otherwise. Fudge reached for his wand on the bedside cabinet.

"Lumos," he murmured into the dark room, which immediately filled with a lemon-yellow light. "Madness. Madness. He's not here." Despite his own words, Fudge found himself checking every shadow for a salient figure resting in between the furniture. This was done to no avail - Lord Voldemort was not there. _Thank Merlin for that._

The empty firewhiskey bottle made a funny shape on the wall, which frightened him.

He tried a few revealing spells, just to make sure. Even if Harry Potter had been condemned to being a madman, and Fudge was expected to uphold this, there was doubt in his mind. There would always be doubt. If You-Know-Who was really back, then that would be the end of the Ministry. It would be the end of his Ministership. It would be the end of _everything._

Alas, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord was not here tonight. In fact, Fudge convinced himself, he was more likely to be a pile of dust and ashes than he was to be alive and in Fudge's quarters.

He mentally shook himself.

"Accio firewhiskey," he said into the silence, and caught the zooming bottle in his outstretched hand. Deftly, quietly, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a double into the sweet-smelling glass on his bedside table. He was too tired to think about cleaning the tumbler beforehand, or to get a fresh one.

The days were slow, just as all days were slow since Harry Potter had exited the maze of the tournament. He was badgered with endless questions, was asked for advice for departmental problems that he was too exhausted to feel particularly bothered about. His job was becoming more difficult every day. Fudge was not a fan. And he was also not a fan of how agitated it made him feel. Whenever he would walk into the Ministry, a headache would almost always commence instantly. It was all he could do to just get into the lift down to his office, just to get away from the noise of it all.

That's why he had sent Dolores Umbridge.

Deplorable woman. But Fudge knew she would do _something_ about Potter, what needed to be done. He needed to be quietened. Not quite silenced, but quietened.

While Fudge was uncertain what to do about Harry Potter – partly because he only believed Harry a filthy liar in his own desperation for Harry's words to be false – but Dolores was adamant that he needed to be punished. She was adamant that Potter was lying and that her presence in the school would quash his lies, and the beliefs of his friends.

So, he had sent her to Hogwarts, half gloriously happy over her success in the first few weeks, half saturated with fear of what may become of Hogwarts in her power.

Things were better, for a while.

Fudge had regular reports from Dolores, sent by an eagle owl to his work or home address. She gave concerning information about the students – that, at first, they protested against her teaching techniques – and even more concerning information about the other professors – that she would be interviewing and assessing them one at a time. This was, in part, Fudge's idea. He suggested to Dumbledore that he check that his employees are not dangerous fugitives – or creatures, Umbridge had added, much to Fudge's annoyance – before letting them loose on such pliable students.

For a while, Harry Potter had been quietened.

But then the article came out.

The November issue, a page splattered with a huge photograph and more text than appears in the Prophet headlines nowadays. Written by Rita Skeeter, no less. Fudge had wondered where she had disappeared to – her and her wild stories that seemed to capture truths even the subject did not care to share. Such as Hagrid and his giantess mother, and the moving tale of Harry's parents, and how their deaths still affect him to this day.

It was an enormous spread that might as well have been titled "The Ministry is a band of frauds and I saw Voldemort return from the dead, so suck it Fudge".

Dolores' notoriously tight head of curled hair appeared in his fireplace that day, the first day she had done so since taking the job as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Fudge almost sighed in frustration. This was bound to cause problems in whatever scheme she was running, as clearly Potter had managed to do this interview without her notice or knowledge. He had, in fact, done it more discreetly than the meet-up in the Hogshead Pub.

"Cornelius, I have something regretful to tell you," she said, frowning, her face orange in the dancing flames. She did not wait for him to ask. "Despite my determination to keep Potter under wraps, he has gone behind my back _again_ to take an interview with Rita Skeeter of all people, telling those foul lies from the tournament all those months ago!"

He nodded in reply. Like many others in the Ministry that day, he had, in fact, read the offending article. As much as it pained him, the story did indeed pull on his heartstrings. It was emotive, that was certain. And it didn't have that same Skeeter Flair that used to be so often present in the Prophet. In which case, Harry Potter must believe himself. He must truly believe that You-Know-Who was back, alive, and getting together his army.

"The boy is ridiculous," Dolores continued, almost at horrifying screeching levels. "He even named respectable Ministry workers – probably in the aim of getting to you, Minister."

"Probably," Cornelius murmured in assent. "Just have the articles banned – do another of those decrees you have so eloquently been applying to the school."

"Yes, yes. A ban on the article, and a complete haul of every single copy within the school. I thought as much."

This was the last he heard of her for some time, other than the letters which protested Potter – which arrived almost daily. He was thankful. He drank the firewhiskey to steer away the nightmares – to knock himself out before sleep could claim him slowly. He attended countless meetings, and avoided countless others. Life was quiet for a little while, though the fear in his heart remained.

When he heard word of _Dumbledore's Army_ , things took a turn for the worst.

Fudge already feared that he was going to be overthrown by someone of higher calibre. Because, though he was hardworking, he was not a brilliant wizard like so many of his other fellows and colleagues. It was highly likely that someone of more intelligence would quickly overpower him and take over the Ministry if things came to such a state. And now Dumbledore was forming an army? That would _simply not do_.

At first, he tried appealing to Dumbledore, who insisted that he knew nothing of such an army. This only maddened Fudge further. Dolores was determined to catch them in the act, knowing that so many of them were out of their beds at night, running riot with Potter's gang and his magic tricks. Finally, after weeks, she did. He took a couple of aurors with him, betting on some kind of attack.

Oh, and how right he was!

There was a crackling presence of magic in the air as they fought, rubble crumbling, books flying in every direction. When the smoke cleared, Dumbledore had disappeared, leaving Potter and the Edgecombe girl behind. With the soft squawk of a phoenix, Dumbledore had vanished from his own office and subsequently become an outlaw.

Two, perhaps three, months later, he appeared again. This time, right inside Fudge's home, his heavy footfalls crushing an empty bottle, his robes dragging along the dirt-trodden floor.

"Cornelius, there is no time like the present." Dumbledore's urgent voice woke him with a start, for it was the dead of night. "Voldemort is at the Ministry. You must see, and you must understand. He is there, Cornelius. You must believe me this time for we are all in grave danger."

Fudge froze, still half in the land of the dreams, not having quite registered the events unfolding before him.

"What are you talking about Dumbledore – _Dumbledore_?" The shock of the outlaw being in his bedroom startled him from any semblance of sleepiness. "I will summon the aurors here right now, you know I will."

Dumbledore shook his silvery head. "Fudge, if you want me, I will be at your Ministry, defending it for you."

Of course, he went; it was the only logical thing to do. He had to take down Dumbledore, and he had to find out about You-Know-Who. He needed to be there for state security and for the sake of his own curiosity. Possibly for his sanity as well.

Fudge and the aurors arrived in a whirl of dust and smoke, apparating into the atrium. His eyes glanced around for Dumbledore, but instead found a talk figure, dressed all in black, face pale-white, eyes a burning red. His snakelike face seemed caught between a sneer and a look of surprise.

 _Voldemort._

"He's back," Cornelius Fudge cursed, breathless.

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 **Thanks for reading!**


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